


More Things In Heaven and Oxford

by DonnesCafe



Series: Christmas Visitations with Wedding Interludes [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Cosmological Speculation, Crossover, Drug Use, Family, Fix-it fic, Gen, Love, Magdalen College, Narnialock, Oxford, Parentlock, Providence, Suicidal Thoughts, fathers and sons, schrodinger's cat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Michael Ward’s book <i>Planet Narnia</i> end up on the bookshelves of 221B after Sherlock moved in but before John did? How do we explain (in-BBC-verse) the fact that the book refers to an author who firmly believed that Sherlock Holmes was a Victorian-era fictional detective? Therein lies a tale…</p><p>I decided to made this part of the series since it's in the same AU, and I may add to it. All tidy now. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Primus, Christmas Eve 2031

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mid0nz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mid0nz/gifts).



> Set in my AU _Christmas Times Two with a Wedding Interlude,_ but stands alone. The only thing you need to know for this one is that Sherlock and Janine got married and had a bunch of kids. Plot bunny grew out of this post [Planet Narnia](http://mid0nz.tumblr.com/post/83617829588/narnia-lock-is-canon-not-a-drill-sherlock-knows)  
>  This may not be what you had in mind, but thanks for the bunny.

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,_  
 _Than are dreamt of in your philosophy._  


~~ Shakespeare, _Hamlet_ Act 1, Scene 5. 

~~~~~  


Bredon was bored but wary. Christmas Eve dinner at Uncle Mycroft’s bored him because food bored him. His uncle loved it, however, so there were always multiple courses. His mother and Aunt Mary were ooh’ing and aah’ing over some meat dish with a French name. Just looked like beef and mushroom stew to him. Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Jasper were talking about the wine. It was a good thing this was a huge room with an enormous dining room table. Honorary aunts, uncles, Gran and Opa, honorary cousins, brothers and sisters crowded along both sides. Bredon sighed. 

He looked down the table and saw his father smiling sympathetically at him. Food bored him, too. Another reason Bredon was bored was because Christmas Eve dinner was always the dress-up meal. He loathed dressing up. He narrowed his eyes at Kate and Max, sitting close to his father. That pair of twins was the artistic pair. They loved music and art and dressing up. He thought they looked ridiculous. 

His father, though, looked beautiful in his tuxedo. Maybe beautiful wasn’t a word you applied to a man, Bredon thought, but Da looked like part of a painting. The candlelight picked out the gold of the ring on the white hand holding a cut-crystal wine glass. The black jacket and white shirt picked up the few white streaks in his dark hair. Maybe dressing up was something that wouldn’t bore him after he grew up. 

He was wary because it was getting close to nine o’clock. Nanny V would be coming into the dining room at any time to take him up to bed. He loathed going to bed even more than he hated boredom. She had come to take little Grace away to her crib right before eight. The Holmes Code stated that bedtime for all children eight or below was eight o’clock. You got an extra hour for each year older you were, up until you hit the eleven o’clock ceiling for those under eighteen. None of them were eighteen yet, but Mike and Charlie had already tried testing the rule. Ma was inflexible. She said that it was in the Code, and once they turned eighteen she didn’t give a rat’s ass when they went to bed. When this was quoted to Da during the appeal, he said he totally agreed with their mother, especially with the rat’s ass part. 

He needed to decide quickly. Did he wait and get collared by the NV or could he slip out and hope that they’d let it slide for a while. The grown-ups were pre-occupied with the meal and each other. Sherlock had turned to talk to Uncle John. Max and Charlie seemed to be playing video games on their phones under cover of the edge of the blindingly white table cloth. No-one was watching him. He went boneless and sank quietly to the floor. Luckily he was near the door. Soundlessly, he made it out the door. He heard someone coming down the front stairs. He could just see Nanny V’s festive gold-braided slippers, then the hem of her green-velvet dress. He looked down the hall toward the back stairs. No one coming or going. 

He hared off down the hall as quickly and quietly as he could, then bounded lightly up two sets of carpeted stairs. He stopped on the third-floor landing, leaned against the wall, and breathed. This was the top floor of the Belgravia house, but he had never been at this end. The house was old, large, and full of interesting things and interesting corners. Around that corner there was another set of stairs going up. To where? He would find out, of course. 

At the top of the stairs was a hallway going off to the right. Two doors, one to the right and one to the left. He walked down the dark hallway and cautiously opened the left-hand door. It creaked. Pitch black inside. His hand scrabbled and found the light switch. The small overhead light shone down on a jumble of trunks, boxes, and other detritus. This was apparently where the old and damaged went to live in his uncle's otherwise immaculate house. On the left-hand wall, behind a barrier of boxes, Bredon could see a dark piece of furniture. He went into the room and closed the door behind him. Skirting the boxes, he saw that the dark thing was a wardrobe, like the one Ma had in her bedroom. Except this one looked much, much older. It hunkered against the wall like something out of another time or out of a fairy story involving dwarves or witches. Its doors were covered with intricate carvings. 

Bredon went closer and traced one of the carvings with his fingers. A tree spread on top of a hill, tiny stars raised in the dark wooden sky. He opened the door and peered inside. Disappointingly, the magical-looking wardrobe seemed to contain suits. Uncle Mycroft had a bazillion suits. Were these the unfavored ones, banished to the attic? Bredon’s hand reached out and touched a green tweed, then a dark brown. He felt a cold breeze on his fingers. His brow furrowed. The room itself was cool, but the breeze was cold, and it was coming from inside the wardrobe. He parted the suits. Another row of suits hung behind. Really, how many suits did his uncle need? 

He shoved the first row further apart and stepped inside. The breeze was stronger. He parted the second row, and stepped into darkness.


	2. Oxford Secundus, Epiphany 1945

The professor came out of evensong humming “Let All Mortal Flesh” and thinking about the collect for the day. “Oh God, who by the leading of a star didst manifest thy only-begotten Son....” He paused, thanked God for all the manifestations of his mercy, and put on his hat. It was almost seven o’clock, and he was tired and hungry. Paxford should be waiting just outside the Magdalen gate with the car. Home, tea, and a bit of supper. 

Just as he was about to step under the grey stone archway and out onto the walk, he noticed a small figure hunched up against the stone wall. He stopped. The boy seemed to be asleep. He thought of his tea and his supper and almost walked on. “Lacking in all charity,” he silently berated himself. The boy was dressed neatly in a blazer, white shirt, and a striped tie. He looked like any public school boy. But he had no coat, it was dark, and it had begun to snow. 

He leaned down and gently put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Here, boy, wake up. Are you waiting for someone?” 

The boy’s eyes flew open. Lewis was startled by how beautiful they were. They seemed to be composed of shifting shades of blue, grey, and green. They were set in a pale, thin face framed by unusually long, dark, curling hair. He involuntarily took a step back. The boy looked for all the world like one of the elves in the story that Tollers was spinning. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” he repeated. “Are you lost? Can I help you? You shouldn’t be out here without a coat.” 

The boy scrambled to his feet and looked around. “I was in…. I was…. Where…?” Bredon turned around and around, but could find no point of reference. Darkness, snow, grey stone arches and path. The man standing in front of him was tall, bulky, wrapped in a long dark coat and scarf, a hat covering his head. An expression of concern grew on the red-tinged face, which also looked both tired and.... kind underneath everything else. 

Bredon remembered the wardrobe. Perhaps he was dreaming, but it didn’t feel like a dream. He needed data. “Where is this, sir?” 

The large man cocked his head and gestured behind him. “Magdalen College Chapel.” 

No response from the boy. 

“Oxford,” he continued, puzzled. Was something the matter with the boy? The child assessed him for several moments. Then the remarkable eyes closed and remained closed. 

“And… and _when_ is it?” 

“Epiphany. January 6th.” Lewis was becoming more worried by the minute. Had the boy been hurt? 

“And the…,” Bredon realized how strange this was going to sound. “…the year, sir?” 

“1945.” The boy’s eyes came open then. He lifted his chin. “Yes,” he said softly, “I’m lost.” The voice shook only a little. 

Should he call the police? Someone from the college? Something about the lifted chin. The elvish eyes. 

“Look,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Lewis. I teach here at the college. Would you care to come home with me for supper? We can talk and try to sort it out.” 

Bredon hesitated just a moment, then shook the proffered hand. Large hand, scholar’s hand. Bredon noted the smooth and supple fingers, the ink stains. The grip was dry and strong. He looked up into kind, tired eyes. “Thank you, sir. I’ll come.” 

~~~~~  


Paxford had looked at the boy askance, but said nothing. He was used to the charity cases. Lewis thanked the stars that Warnie was out with friends tonight. Although that was usually a cause for some concern, tonight it was convenient. The boy looked a bit fragile, and Warnie could be a bit…. hearty. 

Lewis took Bredon into a cluttered room filled with chairs and sofas and books. “You get warm by the fire,” he said. “I just need to check on my mother.” Mrs. Moore had been laid up for days upstairs with her varicose veins. Another blessing in this instance. 

When he came back down, he said. “Clear that table off, if you would be so kind. We’ll eat in here.” Bredon did as he was asked, moving books and pens and stacks of paper. Lewis came back several minutes later with two plates. Bread, cheese, sausages. He was followed by a nondescript woman carrying two bowls of soup. 

“Just bring the tea in, would you, then you can leave us to our own devices, Mrs. P,” Lewis said. He motioned for Bredon to sit. 

“After you, sir,” said Bredon. His mother insisted on good manners. 

Lewis smiled. “Thank you.” He sat. The woman came in with the tea and left. Lewis poured. He added milk and sugar to both their cups without asking. 

“So, I’m Professor Lewis, and you are….?” 

“I’m sorry, sir. Bredon. Bredon Holmes.” 

Lewis nodded. “Sausage?” he asked. “These are a rare treat, so you came on the right night. Rationing, you know.” 

Actually, Bredon didn't know. “Yes, please.” 

Lewis speared a sausage and added it to his plate. Pushed the bread and cheese nearer to him. The professor began to eat his soup. 

“So, Bredon. Why were you asleep outside the chapel without a coat on this January night?” 

“It’s rather hard to explain, sir.” 

“I thought it might be. I’ll help you if I can, but you need to tell me how. Have you run away from school? From home?” Lewis thought about the three evacuees that had been housed in the Kilns for so long. “Are you an evacuee from London?” 

Suddenly Bredon smiled, quite a beautiful smile in the pale face. “Well, I came here from London. But I’m not an evacuee. Look, sir, I do need help. But I can’t really explain how I got here. Maybe it would help if I could explain where… when I’m from?” 

“When?” Lewis’s eyes sharpened. Suddenly they reminded Bredon of his father’s eyes. 

Bredon took a deep breath. “Professor, are you good at believing things? “ 

Lewis laughed, a hearty booming sound. The face that had been tired and sad lit up from within. “You might be surprised, young man.” 

“I’m from Sussex, but we were visiting my Uncle Mycroft in London….” 

Lewis sat back. The boy had said his name was Bredon Holmes. Mycroft Holmes? Was the boy playing some sort of elaborate joke? 

“Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?” 

“Yes, sir. It was Christmas Eve, and I snuck out of dinner, and I went exploring, and I got in the wardrobe, then it went black, and then I was…. there. Here.” The boy’s voice got faster, “And it’s not just that I was in London and now I’m not. I was in 2031 and now I’m not. And my Da says that when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains….” 

Lewis cut in, “…. however improbable, must be the truth.” 

Bredon’s eyes lit with hope. “You know him! You know my father…. But how….” 

Lewis shook his head, and the light in the boy’s face went out. Lewis was suddenly even more afraid for this strange child. The clear eyes didn’t look mad at all. The small face had gone white. The boy pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. 

He said, gently, “Your father is…. Sherlock Holmes?” 

Bredon nodded. The professor reached over for a piece of bread which he proceeded to crumble onto his plate without eating. They both sat in silence for several moments. Then Lewis said, “Have you read Hamlet, young Bredon?” 

“More things in heaven and earth?” asked Bredon. 

“Got it in one. There are, you know. I don’t see anything inherently impossible about portals between worlds. Why not a wardrobe after all? It’s all possible under the mercy.” 

“Under the mercy?” 

“Just a phrase a friend likes to use. God’s providence is over us all. Perhaps your finding your way here was part of that providence. We’ll have to trust to that providence to get you home." Lewis prayed that it would, because he didn’t have any other ideas at the moment. His exploration of other worlds had so far been confined to interplanetary romances and a children's fantasy story he was working on at the moment. The only theoretical physicists he knew at Oxford he disliked intensely. 

“I’m going to show you something. You have both intelligence and courage, Bredon, and you need to see this.” The professor walked over to a bookshelf and started running his hands over spines and muttering to himself. 

“Ah, here it is,” he said. He returned to the table and opened the book to the title page. Bredon looked down. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._ But that couldn’t be. The publication date on the page was 1892. 

“I’m sorry to say that it may be even more complicated than you think. Bredon, you’re not dreaming. You’re here. With me. If you are telling me the truth, and I think you are, it’s not just time and place that’s the problem. In….,” Lewis hesitated. How else could he say it? “In my world, Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. That’s a first edition of a book of stories. Fiction.” 

“He’s not fiction.” Bredon's tone was indignant. Then he swallowed and his voice turned to a whisper. “In my world, he’s my Da. I’m never going to get home, am I? I’ll never see him again.” Lewis looked at him. As surely as he had ever known anything, he knew that this boy was not mad and was not a liar. 

“Let’s sleep on it, shall we? Don’t give up hope.” He put a hand on Bredon’s shoulder and squeezed it. “I’ll do everything I can to help. Who knows? If you’re out of place, maybe the universe will sweep you back to your place. Trust providence.” 

Bredon nodded but wouldn’t meet his eyes. Lewis heart ached for him. He couldn’t be more than nine or ten. He had lost his own mother at about the same age. “Time for you to get some sleep, I think. Do you like stories?” 

Bredon nodded again and looked up. “Then once you’re in bed, I’ll tell you about one I’m working on. It’s about some children who find themselves in another world. As it happens, they get swept back into their own world quite nicely. By the way, I hadn’t figured out how to get my heroine to Narnia in the first place. Would you mind if I use your wardrobe to get her safely there?” 

“Not at all, sir. It looked like the kind of wardrobe that would fit in here, anyway.” Bredon looked around the warm, cluttered space. Books were stacked on every surface, the furniture was comfortable and shabby, and it looked like Mr. Lewis didn’t let anyone dust much in here. It looked like Da’s study, except for the missing skull. He felt obscurely comforted. He yawned. “What’s Narnia?” 

Lewis smiled. “Bed,” he said. They agreed he could sleep in his clothes, since the household couldn’t provide any pajamas that weren’t ludicrously large. Once he had washed his face and brushed his teeth, the professor pulled up a chair and told him about his dreams of a faun carrying packages in the snow, a dream that had turned into a book. He told him about the wicked queen and a winter that never turns into spring. Bredon went to sleep to the sound of a low voice talking about a lion, and he dreamed of winter. 

~~~~~  


When the professor went to check on him in the morning, the boy was gone. He searched the house, and even went out onto the grounds to look. No Bredon. He was such a polite child. Lewis didn’t think he had run away. He went back upstairs and knelt to say his morning prayers. He prayed that the Father, in his providence, would care for the strange boy with the elven eyes, wherever and whenever he was.


	3. Slipstream, Space/Time Fragments

**London Primus - 3 December 1992**

“I went to Balliol, why not Balliol?” Mycroft was irritated beyond belief with his little brother. He had had to drive to Hampshire because Sherlock had been politely asked to leave Winchester before the end of term. And now he was refusing to go back. “If you’re going to try to get into Oxford on the strength of exams and recommendations without finishing at Winchester, the Holmes name carries some weight at Balliol and might ease your way. Why Magdalen? I thought you were going to be a scientist of some sort. If you insist on another college to maintain your …. independence….” 

Sherlock winced at the pause and the sarcasm behind that ‘independence.’ Mycroft had plucked him out of Eton twice for stints in rehab and gotten him into Winchester when Eton refused to take him back the second time. He had gotten kicked out this time for breaking Jeremy Sodding DeLay’s arm. He had gotten used to the casual daily harassment. To being called wanker and freak. But when DeLay had started in on Small Paul, shy, awkward little Paul Sargeant, he had snapped. Sherlock wanted out and thought he could pass the Oxford entrance exams now. Seventeen was early, but he had had more than enough of Winchester. 

Mycroft was still talking, “… or Pembroke for chemistry?” 

A British prime-minister once said that the men of Balliol possessed “the tranquil consciousness of an effortless superiority.” Sherlock had already had quite enough of Mycroft’s effortless superiority without being surrounded by it on a day-to-day basis. He would be miserable at Balliol. 

“I like the deer at Magdalen. And Addison’s Walk,” Sherlock drawled. “Besides, if Magdalene was good enough for Schrödinger and Bertie Wooster, it’s good enough for me.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Do be serious, Sherlock.” 

“I am. I’m going to Magdalen.” Mycroft threw up his hands and left the room. 

**London Primus – 25 December 2010**

John had finally gone to bed, so it was safe to come out. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it. As Mycroft said, he barely knew the woman. She had been full of life and intelligence. Humor…. mischief, even. Now she was a white body on a white slab. 

He went over to John’s chair and looked down at the small table beside it. John had been so upset that he forgot to hide the bible. It was still open to the second chapter of Luke. John wasn’t particularly religious, but he was a bit of a traditionalist. The bible usually came out around Christmas, occasionally Easter, more rarely at other times. During the Christmas season it usually lived crammed behind the cushion where John thought Sherlock didn’t see it. He crossed over to the bookshelf behind John’s chair and plucked out his own holy book. 

He had brought it with him from Oxford, kept it as a talisman all these years. _Planet Narnia._ Sherlock didn’t believe in the supernatural, but this was at least his own bit of the inexplicable, hiding in plain sight. He had counted on the fact that no-one else would ever open it or, if they did, that they wouldn’t notice the anomalies. So far, he had been correct. It was safer now. The publication date was 2008, so having it in 2010 wouldn’t immediately set off alarm bells. The fact that he had found it on the table in his rooms in Oxford in December of 1994 would be harder to explain. As was the fact that there was no record of the book ever being published and no record of the existence of the man the book was about. Every year around this time, if he was in the country and out of rehab, he retrieved the book and read the note written on the title page in shaky blue letters. It was his equivalent of Luke 2. 

**Oxford Secundus - 3 December 2008**

When he woke up this time, he was lying outside somewhere on the cold ground. Not the professor’s house, then. It was dim and cold. And it was snowing. Bredon sat up and looked around him. He was lying on grass. There were trees around him, but he could see pavement and a tall, elaborate stone something just outside the little stand of trees. He was still afraid and sad. But he was also pissed. If the space-time continuum was going to keep taking him places, why couldn’t it at least be summer? It was like Professor Lewis’s Narnia. Always winter and never Christmas. That was another thing. He had missed Christmas, and that seemed totally unfair. The Professor had been so nice, and he had seemed almost as smart as his father. He told Bredon that he had courage and intelligence. He would use them to figure this out and get home. He stood up and walked out of the trees and up to the stone thing. 

He read the writing on the side. “To the Glory of God….” It was a memorial for three men who had been burned for their faith. At the end was the date the thing had been erected. M.DCCCXLI. 1841. So it was at least 1841 wherever and whenever he was. He looked around. It was early, but he could see a couple of parked cars. No people. The cars looked early 21st century. He needed to do some research. He needed a bookstore. 

He wandered down the street. Broad Street, the sign said. He was cold and he was hungry. He had no money. He straightened his spine and walked on. Shortly he found a bookstore called Blackwell, but it didn’t open until 9:00. It felt earlier than that. He looked in the window. Right in front of his nose was a display of books. Black covers with white writing and a picture of the planet Jupiter. _Planet Narnia: the Seven Heavens in the imagination of C.S. Lewis._ Bredon’s heart sank. That probably meant that he was in Secundus. He had started to think of the alternate universe where his father was a fictional character and Professor Lewis was writing about Narnia as Secundus. His world was Primus. He tried to ignore thoughts about the possibilities of a Tertius, Quartus, and Quintus. And on and on. If he thought about that, he might give up. So he was probably in Secundus. 

“Want to come in?” He looked around. A young, blond man in jeans was standing in front of the door. He rattled a ring of keys. “We don’t open for another hour, but it’s cold out here. If you promise not to steal anything, you can come inside while I deal with the registers and the café.” 

“Thank you. That would be nice.” 

He followed the man in. “Do you mind if I look at some books? I promise I won’t steal them.” 

“You look fairly trustworthy. Want some hot chocolate? I’m going to make some for myself.” 

“No money.” Bredon shrugged. 

“On the house. Just don’t tell the dragon-lady if she comes in while you’re here.” 

“OK. Thanks a lot. I’ll be back.” 

Bredon swung through the fiction section long enough to confirm that Sherlock Holmes was indeed fictional. Hell. Secundus for sure. There was a whole section of books by and about Professor Lewis. That made him smile. Good for him. He saw that the professor had used the wardrobe idea. He pulled that one off the shelf to take with him as well as a copy of _Planet Narnia._ Maybe it would have something about portals and alternate worlds in it. He went past the newspapers and confirmed that it was 2008 here. The third of December. That meant that Professor Lewis was dead by now. That was sad. Then he thought that with the way things were going, he might see him again some day anyway. More things in heaven and earth for sure. He seemed to be bouncing around the universe – multiverse, he corrected himself - in a way that showed no pattern. He wasn’t at all sure what that might mean. 

He circled back around to the café and claimed his hot chocolate. The young man saw the books he had. 

“Lewis fan?” Bredon nodded. “Me, too. Here, have a scone. He reached into the glass case, put a cinnamon scone on a plate and carried it to a table. “You can read here. Just don’t get anything on the books, ok?” 

Bredon smiled at him. “I’ll be careful.” And he was. He was careful to later become invisible, hide in a supply cabinet in a workroom, and not come out until after closing time. 

He waited until everything was quiet. He waited some more after that. Then he cautiously came out of the cabinet and out of the darkened workroom. The only lights in the store were dim security lights and the light of streetlamps coming in through the windows. He made a circuit around the store for supplies, staying low and avoiding the windows. He went by the stationary department, selected the cheapest ballpoint he could find and took one sheet of stationary from a display. He didn’t like to steal, but it was necessary. He needed to be able to make notes. He went back to the café, got another scone, and put it down on a table with _Planet Narnia._ He took _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ back to its place. He had finished that one by the light from a slit in the supply cabinet during the afternoon. Mr. Lewis was a very good writer, he thought proudly. He looked longingly at the other Chronicles, but he didn’t have time. He went to the science section. He pulled three books off the shelves and took them back to the café. 

Sometime during the middle of the night, he folded his page of notes, stuck it into _Planet Narnia,_ and went to sleep still holding the book. 

**Oxford Primus - 3 December 1994**  


Cold, snow, dark. Bloody hell. This was getting old. Then he thought of his mother. Janine discouraged swearing from those under sixteen. His throat tightened. Not a good idea to think of his mother. He was going to get home somehow. He looked down. He was still holding _Planet Narnia,_ his notes stuck in as a bookmark. He didn’t need them now, but they had helped him to think. He had the beginnings of an idea about how this was working. If the many-world interpretation of Schrödinger’s paradox was correct, every event is a branch point. It wasn’t just primus and secundus. It was effectively infinite. He was bouncing around in the past, though, not the future. He seemed to just be shifting between two apparently interconnected branchings, so theoretically, if he could….. 

He heard shouting. People were coming around the corner. Maybe better not to cause any more branchings than he already had. He ducked behind a low stone wall and looked out. There was a man coming around the corner, in front of the….. Oh. He recognized where he was. He was standing across from the Magdalen chapel. The man was walking fast, followed by three other men. They were yelling at him. 

“Why don’t you just leave college? You’re never going to pass tripos, wanker. You're stoned half the time. Everyone hates the sight of you.” 

“You’re a damned junkie, Sherlock! And that's all you are. Just disappear into rehab again and don’t come back. Save us from listening to you try to prove how clever you are." 

Sherlock. Bredon gasped, then put his hand over his mouth. It was…. was it? When was this? Primus? Secundus? The man was young, tall, painfully thin. Dark jeans, black jacket. Alone. Snowflakes in his long, dark hair. Could this be his father? Not just … _a_ Sherlock, but _his_? How could he know? The three men closed in. The lone figure threw his shoulders back and turned to face them. The chin lifted, the eyes glittered, hands knotted into fists. His Sherlock. His father. 

The face was white and furious, mouth twisted into a bitter line. “Leave me the _hell_ alone, Seb,” he hissed to the man who had said the thing about rehab. “I’m not leaving. Not this time.” 

They jumped him. Bredon sank behind the wall. He couldn’t watch. He was afraid to interfere. He was afraid to let his father see him. That might create an anomaly that would ruin everything. He heard them leave, laughing. He looked cautiously over the wall. His father had already picked himself up and was walking away. Bredon followed behind him, keeping out of sight, across the snow-filled quad and into something called New Building. Followed him quietly up the stairs to the second floor. This must be where his room was. Sherlock went inside and slammed the door… 

Bredon pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t leave it like this. Wouldn't. He could not risk talking to his father who wasn’t yet his father. That might mess up the lines or waves beyond …. Well, mess them up. He was still holding the book. Maybe he’d just leave a message. He knew it was risky, but he might never see his father again anyway. 

…the door of the sitting room and went directly to the bedroom. They had taken his leather jacket, so he didn’t even need to stop to take it off. He was high now, but not high enough. He sat on the bed and closed his eyes for a long time, not moving, just trying to breathe. Trying to think. He had been wrong about Magdalen. It was just as bad as Eton, as Winchester, as Balliol would have been. He could not bear his life. They were right. He was a freak. He was a junkie. Mycroft was coming tomorrow to take him home for Christmas. He opened his eyes, rolled up his sleeve, and looked at the needle tracks. Home. Well, junkies overdosed all the time, didn’t they? He reached under the bed for the small leather kit. Heroin. Syringe. Fuck. Not there. Where had he left it last time? Then he remembered. Under the sofa cushion. He pushed himself up wearily. He just had to make it to the sofa. 

On the way to the sofa, he saw the book on the table. He hadn’t left anything there. What did it matter? He passed the table and sat on the sofa, reached under the cushion, and pulled out the kit. He turned it over and over in his hands. He looked over at the table. Where had that book come from? Bloody hell, he thought. He smiled bitterly in spite of himself. His curiosity always got the better of him. Always. He’d just take a look. He could always kill himself in a minute. He walked to the table. 

Square in the middle. Black cover. Jupiter. _Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C.S. Lewis._ Michael Ward. He had never seen this book before. Certainly hadn’t put it on the table. He had never heard of C.S. Lewis or Michael Ward. He sat down at the table and opened the cover. Someone had written something in blue ink, sprawling over the title page. Cheap ballpoint pen, left-handed, child. Neat letters, but not cursive and somewhat unformed. Under stress when writing, indentations, shaky. Before he read it, he looked down at the publication date. 2008. 2008. Was this a joke? Had they followed him? Was this part of the torment? He looked at the book carefully. No sign of cutting or pasting. The spine was intact. In spite of himself, he was intrigued. This was fascinating. 

Then he looked at the writing. _You’re always telling us that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You’re always telling me that I shouldn’t worry about being different. Neither should you. You’ll see – it gets loads better. I love you, Da. Bredon. Christmas Eve, 2031. Sort of._

He read it again, and traced the writing with fingers that shook. Was it addressed to him? Who was Bredon? But that thing about the impossible sounded like something he would, in fact, say. He would never be anyone’s father, though, much less their “Da.” He would never be loved. What a tender world that would be. 2031? Sort of? He was intrigued. He wanted to find out more about the book. He could always overdose another day. 

Then he saw that there was a piece of paper stuck in the book. He pulled it out. Notes and drawings of some sort. Same handwriting, same cheap blue ballpoint. _entanglement. Quantum ties. Andrei Linde anthropic principle. Everett 1957 many-world interpretation.But can you go back to a split point??? What about quantum decoherence?? Uniformity of cosmic microwave background (Davies 2007?) Heisenberg noncommuting m’s a problem. Schrödinger waves and the cat. Focal point?_ The last two words were underlined twice. There was also a drawing that looked like a wavy “Y” with tendrils coming off it and a couple of equations. 

Sherlock decided to make some tea. He knew about Schrödinger and waves. The man had been a fellow at Magdalen in the 1930’s. He had written some well-respected papers on wave theory. Died in a Nazi concentration camp in World War II. The only connection he knew of between the physicist and a cat was the persistent rumor around the college that he had been asked to leave in 1939 because he was found to be living with two women, neither his wife, and a hairless cat named Milton. 

**London Primus - 3 December 2021**

”What shall I read you tonight?” Sherlock asked, leaning over to kiss Janine. She was already in bed. She was tired. Tired of hiding Christmas presents from two active sets of twins who had inherited their father’s curiosity. Luckily, they so far showed no sign of having inherited his deductive capabilities, so things were still hidden. She was tired of being pregnant, and this one wasn’t due until March. 

Sherlock leaned down to kiss her belly. “And how is nameless-boy tonight?” 

”Leave off. I just haven’t figured out the right name yet.” 

”Take in your claws, Juno. In your own time. You’re beautiful, you know.” She was. Long dark hair curling over a nightgown of deep blue and white lace. Four children, another on the way, and she was more beautiful than when he had first met her. He slid into bed beside her. 

”The horde is bedded down for the night,” he said. Two up in John’s old room, the two older ones down in the renovated basement flat. 221B was bulging at the seams. 

”You’re a good Da, in spite of yourself. Who’d have thought it, boyo?” She leaned over and kissed him. 

”Certainly not me. Juno, am I a good husband to you?” 

”The best, idjit. You’re a feckin’ miracle, you are.” 

Indeed, the whole thing still felt fairly miraculous to him. Sherlock left naming their growing family strictly to Janine. She thought it peculiar, but when she protested, he just said something about not tempting fate and refused to explain it further. She had done well so far. Mycroft Christopher and John Charles, Mike and Charlie, were the first set of twins. The fact that she had chosen those particular names caused cleared throats and suspiciously moist eyes in quarters that need not be mentioned. Then Katherine Molly and Maximilian Richard, Kate and Max. 

The explanation of his apparent unconcern for the names of his offspring, of course, was the book. The book he had never shown anyone. The note from Bredon to his Da. Once he realized that he was going to become a father, and not just a father, but definitely Da to Janine’s Ma he had gotten what a less rational man might call the willies. He refused to participate in baby naming and sat back to await developments. 

“And the reading for this evening?” Now that she was fairly far on in her pregnancy, Janine went to bed early most nights. Sherlock often went to bed with her and read aloud until she fell asleep. 

She reached over on the nightstand. “Myc sent some books over. The note said to start with this one and to tell you that resistance was futile.” She passed him the book. 

He took it and looked at the spine. Bugger Mycroft. Dorothy Sayers. _Murder Must Advertise_. Just what he wanted. A book about a fictional upper-class amateur detective. He rolled his eyes. Janine poked him. “Resistance is futile. Get on with it.” 

He opened it to Chapter 1 and began to read. 

“’And by the way,’ said Mr. Hankin, arresting Miss Rossiter as she rose to go, ‘there is a new copy-writer coming in today.’” Janine closed her eyes and listened to the beautiful voice. The truth was she didn’t care what he read. It could have been one of those articles about blood or ash he was always writing and she would have loved to listed to that voice. 

“’Oh, yes, Mr. Hankin?’” 

“His name is Bredon….,” 

Suddenly he stopped reading. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. 

Janine opened her eyes and looked at him. “You ok?” 

He nodded. 

“Hang on,” she said. She sat up straight against the headboard. “Bredon. That’s a nice name. Sort of like Brendan, but different.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Are you sure? We don’t know anything about this Bredon.” He held up the book. “He could be the murderer. Or the victim.” 

Janine smiled. “Get away with you. It’s too good a name to waste on a murderer or a victim. Bredon…. Bredon Prescott. Prescott Alexander Brady was my granddad.” 

Her face fell when he didn’t answer her. “You don’t like it?” 

“Hmmm?” he said. He was just coming back from a very brief mental trip to Oxford and a room in New College many years ago. He smiled. “It’s a wonderful name. I like it very much.” 

He reached over and put the hand not holding the book lightly on her belly. So here he was at last. “Bredon, welcome to the family.” 

**London Primus - Christmas Eve 1945**

Bredon woke because something was tickling his nose. It was pitch black. But not cold and not snowing that he could tell. He felt dry. He felt around him. Wooden floor. He reached up and felt…. Something soft, furry. He stood up. He panicked for a moment. He seemed to be surrounded by… animals. Furry animals. He took two steps forward. They were still around him. He tried to run and promptly fell. Fell out of…. He looked back. The wardrobe. The wardrobe! 

He looked around him, and his heart sank. Not Uncle Mycroft's. The wardrobe was there, the room was there, but everything else was different. This wardrobe was full of fur coats instead of Uncle Mycroft's suits. There was wallpaper on the walls, bookshelves, no stacks of boxes. Then he saw a man sitting at a desk. An older man, with grey hair and a neat grey beard, writing something by the light of a small lamp. 

The man looked up, saw him, and stood up abruptly. “Who are you, boy? How did you get in here?” 

Bredon stood up. “I came from …. There.” He pointed back at the wardrobe. The man looked at him, then at the closed door leading into the room. 

“You did, did you? Well, well.” He gestured to a chair on one side of the desk. “Sit down. We’ll talk.” 

Bredon sat. So close. Back in the room, but obviously in the wrong time. 

“Sir, can you tell me the day and the year?” 

The man picked up a pipe, relit it, and puffed on it a few times to get it going. He looked at him with sharp grey eyes. “The year?” 

“Yes. The year and the day, please.” 

“It’s Christmas Eve. 1945.” 

Bredon sighed. “This question may seem peculiar, sir, but who is Sherlock Holmes here? Have you heard of him?” 

“Here?” asked the man. “ _Here_ , young man, I've never heard of a Sherlock Holmes. If you don’t mind my asking, who is he _there_?” 

Bredon like this man already. He was like Da. It didn’t take forever to explain things to him. 

“Well, this is Primus. That's how I keep track. In Primus, where I’m from, he’s a detective. He's my father. But he doesn't exist yet, so you haven't heard of him. In Secundus, he's a character in some stories from the nineteenth century. Everyone in Secundus seems to know about him, so you'd have heard of him. That means this is Primus.” 

“I see. Fascinating.” More puffs on the pipe. “My name is Dunholm Kirk. I teach at Magdalen College. Oxford. Care to tell me who you are?” 

“Bredon. Bredon Holmes. You don’t know Professor Lewis do you? He teaches at Magdalen, too. Now, but in the other…. No I guess you don’t.” 

“I don’t. No Lewis in the Senior Common Room, and I know them all. The other…. You were going to say? Time? Place? World? Universe?” 

Bredon looked at him suspiciously. “I teach philosophy and logic, not physics, but it’s the only logical explanation for what you just asked me. Unless you’re mad. You aren’t mad, are you? You look a bit disheveled, but sane and intelligent.” 

“I’m not mad,” Bredon said. 

“You’re lost?” The boy nodded. 

“Well, let’s work our way through this systematically. Tell me how it all began.” 

So Bredon told him. It took a while. 

“So this is …. Pardon me, will be, your Uncle Mycroft’s house. And it started with the wardrobe. Dear me. That wardrobe, Bredon, and this house both belonged to Lady Maria Channing.” 

“Lady Channing?” 

“Thermodynamics? Radiative phenomena?” 

Bredon shook his head. 

“Bless me, what do they teach them at these schools?” he muttered. “Maria Dartford, First Baroness Channing, was my wife’s grandmother and one of the first serious women physicists. We’re here for Christmas with her relatives. They own the house, and a pack of more dim-witted…. Anyway, as you did, I became bored with Christmas Eve dinner and came up here to work. So we have determined that the wardrobe is some sort of focal point or portal into what are, apparently, connected parts of the multiverse. Fascinating.” 

“Yes, sir. And I seem to be getting closer to home. Right bit of the multiverse, right location….” His voice trembled and he stopped. 

“Just the wrong time,” said Kirk. “Well, here’s what I think. Lady Channing was a strange woman, but far ahead of her time. She wasn’t just a mathematician and a physicist. She built things.” 

Both he and Bredon looked over at the wardrobe consideringly. “She studied electric induction, electrostatics, forces, imaging.” Kirk’s voice stopped. “Imaging…. Transmission. Ah. Oh, dear.” 

“Sir? Do you have an idea?” 

“Lady Channing disappeared from this house in 1898. They never found her body.” 

“Sir!” 

“Yes. Yes, indeed. I think that she had that blasted wardrobe built with something inside the walls. Something that acts as a transmitter between parts of the multiverse. That may not be what she intended. Her disappearance may have been an experiment gone wrong. Who knows why it worked for you. Or if it will work again, for you or for anyone.” 

Bredon felt tears in his eyes and looked down. Poor child, thought Kirk. 

“It’s an enormous risk. But if you seem to be getting closer to home, perhaps one more try? Nothing ventured….” 

Bredon stood up. “You’re right, sir. Thank you.” He held out his hand. Kirk stood, came around the desk, and shook it solemnly. The boy went over to the wardrobe and stepped inside. He smiled. “Merry Christmas, sir.” 

“And to you, Bredon.” The boy stepped into the wardrobe and stepped behind the furs. Kirk sat back down and puffed his pipe until it went out. He walked over to the wardrobe, parted the furs, and peered inside. "Bredon?" he called, just to make sure. No answer. He hoped the boy had made it safe home. He walked over to the desk, turned out the light, and went downstairs to talk to his wife’s insufferable relations.


	4. London Primus, Christmas Eve 2031

He tumbled out of the wardrobe just in time to see his father open the door to the room. His father. Bredon felt a sob rise in his throat. Da. Sherlock saw him, and stormed into the room swearing and yelling. The incipient sob disappeared, and Bredon smiled. It was so good to see him. 

“Bloody _hell,_ Bredon, don’t tell me you closed yourself up in that wardrobe. Don’t you know how dangerous that is? Of all the bloody nuisances, you are the worst. Your mother is worried sick. Uncle John and Greg are out in the snow looking for you. Where in Christ’s name have you been all this time?” 

"What day is it? Did I miss Christmas?" 

His father's face turned an interesting shade of red. "What _day_ is it? What bloody _day_? You don't even know how long you've been gone. It's Christmas Eve. You've been gone over two hours and we couldn't find you. Where in God's name have you been?" 

“Oxford and…,” said Bredon in a small voice. He wasn’t quite sure what else to say. “And I didn’t close the wardrobe door. I’m not _stupid._ ” Silence. Sherlock's eyes shifted to the wardrobe, and a rapid series of expressions flitted across his face. One of the things Bredon liked most about Da was he very rarely needed to have things explained to him. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock, his eyes refocusing on Bredon. “The book.” Christmas Eve. 2031. How many times had he read the note on the title page of that book. He had been a fool for not thinking that something might happen tonight. Was almost bound to happen tonight, in fact. He realized that, after all these years, he still hadn't quite _believed_ the whole thing. 

Bredon nodded and waited. He liked watching his father think. It didn’t take long at all. 

“Multiverses. My God, you've been...." 

Bredon’s small body suddenly hurled itself toward Sherlock. His arms went around his father’s waist, and he buried his head in his father's midsection. The muffled voice said, “I was afraid I’d never get back. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” 

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. Bredon heard him clear his throat, then the deep voice, soft but with something fierce about it said, “I would have found you. No matter where or when, I would have found you.” 

The small head stayed buried. “I know. I love you, Da.” 

“It did get better, Bredon. So much better. I have all of you.” 

The boy looked up, arms still firmly around his father. The opal eyes sparkled. “Even when we’re bloody nuisances?” 

“Especially then.” Sherlock leaned down, pressed a kiss on the top of his head. Bredon stepped back. 

“Bredon, why did you….,” 

Something passed across the small face looking up at his. Bredon suddenly looked down at the floor. 

Sherlock thought about that long-ago night in Oxford. About the fact that he had half… more than half… decided to overdose and be done with it. End the suffering. End the suffering he inflicted on the people who loved him. Bredon had, somehow, been there. What had he seen? 

He started again, “The book helped me. Thank you. But wasn’t it a bit risky? Anomalies in the time-line and all that?” 

Bredon didn’t look up. The small voice was gruff. “They were mean to you. I didn’t care. You needed to know.” 

Sherlock felt his heart doing interesting things in his chest. What had he done to deserve this child? Nothing, of course. Fortunately for him, life didn’t seem to be about deserving. 

“Well,” he said, trying hard to keep his tone light, “You’ll tell me all about it, yes?” 

Bredon nodded and looked up. “It was brilliant, even when I was scared. Da, I know what I want to be when I grow up.” 

Sherlock looked down at him. “Let me guess….,” 

“You never guess. You say it’s destructive to the faculties.” 

Sherlock laughed, a laugh full of joy and relief. “So it is. Then let me deduce. Physicist? Cosmologist? Study the multiverses?” 

Bredon nodded. Cambridge undergrad, then maybe MIT, thought Sherlock. “Good thing Mycroft has lots of money,” he muttered aloud. 

“What?” His son looked puzzled. 

“Nothing, nothing,” said Sherlock. He looked at the wardrobe again, then at his son. “Bredon, promise me you won’t tell anyone about else about this, and promise me you won’t try to use it again.” 

Bredon’s face took on a mulish look he knew only too well. The perfect bowed mouth, a miniature version of his own, opened to argue. Sherlock held up a hand. 

“It’s too dangerous. You don’t understand it. You might never have made it back home. Promise me Bredon.” He thought what he would have done in Bredon’s place at that age. His blood ran cold. “I’ll have Mycroft secure this room as it is. When you understand how it works, it will be waiting for you. I promise.” 

His son looked at him consideringly. “If I promise to wait, will you come with me?” 

“I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.” At this rate, Bredon should be out of MIT and have it figured out by the time he was, say, sixty-four or so. Plenty of time for adventure. He held out a hand. “Agreed?” Bredon shook it. “Agreed.” Sherlock foresaw that his conversation with Mycroft about the wardrobe might prove… interesting. 

“Good Lord,” Sherock said, still holding Bredon’s hand. “Your mother still doesn’t know where you are. She’s going to skin me.” 

“Is she going to wail like a banshee?” Holmes code for a very upset Janine. 

“Yes, thanks to you, ungrateful whelp. The price of adventure, Bredon. There’s always a price.” Sherlock put his hands on his son’s shoulders and guided him toward the door. “Now we’ve got to hurry. It’s already after 11:30. At midnight, Mycroft unleashes Anthea and Greg calls out the Force.” 

“At least I didn’t miss Christmas,” Bredon said.


End file.
